


Reunited

by ThatOneWriter15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 13:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17044667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15
Summary: Set at the beginning of 14.03 ("The Scar"), Dean is finally free of Michael, and all he can think about is seeing *her* again.All *she* wants is to have him in her arms again.





	Reunited

“You’re going to see her?” Sam asks, confused.

“Yeah,” Dean clarifies, getting a little annoyed.

“Now?” Castiel adds.

Dean turns to the angel. “ _Yeah_.” He picks up the duffel bag lying on his bed.

“But Dean--” Castiel tries again to put some sense into his best friend’s head. Of course, his best friend is stubborn and is not having it.

“I’m not gonna break in half,” Dean assures Castiel and his brother. He slings the bag over his shoulder. For once, it’s not full of every weapon imaginable; it contains his clothes and his shaving kit.

Sam and Castiel don’t stand down, still blocking the doorway of Dean’s room in a united front. Michael went AWOL for no known reason not twelve hours ago. Dean’s only been back in the Bunker for maybe four since. 

“Dean,” Sam begins, anger playing at the curves of his voice. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.” Dean rolls his eyes.

“We have no idea what Michael’s plan might be, which makes him even more dangerous,” Castiel reminds Dean.

“Exactly!” Dean counters, his arms go out in a wide shrug and his hands slap his hips as they fall back down to against his body. “We have no idea what he’s doing.” Try as he might, a twinge of fear audibly creeps up on those last few words. He swallows. “And if we have no idea what he’s doing, we have no idea how to fight him. Right?”

Sam and Castiel look down, hoping the answers they desperately seek are written in the dust on the floor.

“So, I am just as safe--or unsafe--with her as I am anywhere.” And that’s that. Dean puts the final nail in the argument. Both knowing they lost this one, Sam and Castiel slide out of the way as Dean exits his room, what was left of Michael’s outfit effectively left behind, buried in the trash can. 

***

Being so frustrated with his family, Dean nearly forgets what is waiting for him in the Bunker’s garage.

“Hey, Baby,” he purrs, sliding his hand over the chrome of her trunk. Keys jingling, he climbs into the driver’s seat. He hopes that slamming the door closed will snap him out of this haze he can’t seem to shake. No such luck. But he is still going to go through the motions. He’s good at that.

He fires up her engine and clicks on the radio. AC/DC. Perfect. He cranks up the volume once he hits the road, howling the lyrics to quiet his mind.

She lives about eight hours away. Which is way too far. He doesn’t get to see her often, but something deep in his gut tells him that she may be the only way for him to get past this. Past being possessed by an archangel, who used his body for evil while he was trapped deep inside. He shakes his head. _No. Don’t start thinking about it._ He just has to see her. Regardless.

***

Her breathing shallows as she sees Sam’s name pop up on the caller ID of her phone. _He’s dead._ The thought is there before she can stop it. She shakes her head. _No. Don’t._

On the second ring, she answers, “Sam?” She waits, waits to hear his tone of voice to tell her everything. She begins pacing.

“Hey,” Sam replies lightly, but not cheerfully. Thank God. At least Dean is still alive.

“Hey,” she exhales. “What’s up? Is he okay?”

“Ye-yeah,” Sam falters. She stays silent, both of them knowing his attempt at covering up failed. “I mean, he’s not _great_ , but he’s not sick or...or worse.”

She closes her eyes and relaxes a bit. Her frantic feet still. When Sam had called her early this morning to tell her that he not only found Michael, but that the archangel had left the building, she burst out crying. She wasn’t sure if the tears were of relief or more fear. She wanted to go see Dean immediately, but Sam said he was pretty weak and that it might be best to hold off on visitations. She shouldn’t have listened. She should’ve jumped in her car right then.

“So, what’s the bad news?” She cuts to the chase.

“He, uh, left.”

“He lef-- _Dean_ left the Bunker?”

“Yeah. And he’s on his way to see you.”

Her breath catches in her throat. And for the first time since Dean’s been gone, she allows herself to realize how much she’s missed him. Her legs give out, and she plops on the nearby couch.

“When did he leave?”

“I-- About an hour ago,” Sam informs.

She glances at the clock hanging on the wall. Seven hours from now would be 8 P.M.

“Thanks, Sam.” She hangs up before he has a chance to say anything more. By nightfall, she’ll get to see Dean, and that’s all that matters at the moment. 

***

She’d considered several things: baking a pie, running into town to grab a six-pack, putting sheets on the couch. A list of tasks she would’ve completed for any other visit from Dean, but none of them felt right this time. Her afternoon was completely unproductive. She spent her hours staring mindlessly at some nature documentary marathon. She didn’t even bother to change out of her plaid pajama pants and old t-shirt.

The clock now reads 7:45, and she’s working off her nervous energy, waiting for the purr of the world’s greatest car. She heads upstairs, trying to busy herself with menial tasks. She rearranges the half dozen pillows on her immaculately-made bed four times. She straightens the painting of wildflowers in the bathroom. Passing by a mirror in the hall, she fluffs her hair. Pointless. All of it is pointless.

Finally, she hears it. Baby’s turning up her street. She descends the stairs so quickly, she misses one, and the banister saves her balance. Glancing through the window on her doorframe, she sees the black beauty rev into her driveway, coming to a sudden stop with a screech.

Dean is out of the car in a flash. The sight of him back in his boots, jeans, and a red flannel are enough to make her heart lurch. She flings the door open before he makes it to her front stoop.

He didn’t let himself fully admit how much he needed to see her until she was actually right there in front of him, her face a mix of excitement, relief, and concern. Beautiful.

“Dean,” she sighs, moving toward him, but stopping on the last step that leads to her front door. As soon as he’s within reach, her arms are tossed around his neck, her hands resting on his tense shoulders.

Her touch feels so impossibly good, he loses a bit of his stoic demeanor. With her slightly elevated by the bottom stair, she’s maybe an inch taller than he is. His temple rests against her cheek as he slides his arms around her back, returning her hug. Neither of them move for a long time. They simply stand frozen, finally reunited. The embrace lasts so long, the muscles in her arms begin to twitch with the exertion of holding onto him so tightly. But she doesn’t let go. His neck begins to cramp, so he brings his forehead to her shoulder. His vision now blinded by the close proximity of her soft t-shirt, he is only aware of her. The steady thump of her heart. The scent of her shampoo. The warmth radiating from her. Suddenly, he’s overwhelmed with comfort and familiarity, both of which he’s desperately craved after being lost for so long. Before he can stop it, a small sob rises in his throat. He refuses to part his lips to give it freedom, but she catches it anyway. Without disrupting their hug, she frees one hand to stroke the back of head. Fingers dancing in his hair, she uses all the strength she has left to keep the inappropriate tears stilled in her eyes.

***

After about ten minutes, they finally separate. Well, a little. Her arms slide down to his biceps, and he keeps his fingers tucked around her hips. He has to break their silent eye contact first. His gaze falls to the ground in shame. Shame for seemingly a million different things that no one but himself would fault him for. In that moment, she gets a glimpse at how badly he’s dealing with the whole Michael thing. And who the hell could blame him? She finds his fingers with her own. Their knuckles lock together, and she lifts herself to the next-highest step.

“Come in,” she whispers to the wounded hero.

Still holding one of his hands, she leads him up the stairs, through the front door and foyer, and into the living room. He takes a seat on the couch.  


Quiet. He’s so quiet.

She releases his hand and walks into the next room, the kitchen. She grabs the only bottle of beer in the house, one leftover from his last visit. Maybe she _should’ve_ gone into town and bought more.

__

“Here.” She extends the cold drink to him and plops down on the cushion beside him. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she checks the text message. It’s from Castiel.

Did he make it?  
8:16 P.M.

She quickly thumbs a reply:

He’s here. Safe.  
8:16 P.M.

Stuffing the phone into the couch to avoid any more disturbances, she notices he still hasn’t opened the beer. He examines it, turning it over a couple of times, like he’s reading the label.

“No, thanks,” he announces after some time, setting it on a coaster on the nearby end table.

Fear spreads through her chest. She wants to acknowledge how rare it is that Dean Winchester would pass up a beer. She fights the urge to make some kind of stupid joke about it, even though she doesn’t find his refusal funny in the slightest. Luckily, before she can open her mouth, he opens his.

“I’m sorry,” he confesses, finally meeting her eyes. For two seconds. Then, a hangnail on his thumb receives all the attention from those emeralds that sparkle underneath his lashes. “It’s just… I finally got back control over... _me_. I don’t want to lose it again by getting buzzed.” His teeth pluck at his nail before he wanly drops his hand onto his lap. He stares straight ahead.

“Okay” is the only response she can find. The silence expands for miles between them. She turns to face him and takes him in. He is barely functioning, that much is obvious right away.

“Dean,” she urges. “When is the last time you slept?”

He half-chuckles, half-scoffs. Suddenly, his chin rises as a realization dawns on him. “Not since... _before_.” He’s not going to be able to hold on much longer. He forces himself to find her dazzling blue eyes, and feels the punch to his stomach upon seeing how devastated they are.

“Be--” she goes to question, but stops short as she gets it. The pain in his face was her answer. “Before...him.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. He rests his elbows on his knees and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He’s hit with how exhausted he is--and how terrified he is of what sleep will bring.

She slides off the couch and kneels before him. She pulls his hands from his face. Fingers intertwined with his again, she stands. “Come with me.”

***

She leads him up to her bedroom. There’s a night light glowing just inside the door. It’s past dusk now, and the darkness hit its sensor. She considers switching on the overhead light, but there’s something soothing about the dull blue color that’s washing over the room.

She takes a hold of his waist, securing him so he can’t run from her next move. “You need to sleep.”

He wants to argue, but he can barely stand. In fact, she’s more or less holding him upright at this point. Somewhere deep in his mind he considers how thrilled he’d normally be to receive her touch like this. But right now, he’s shutting down.

“I--I can take the couch,” his lungs barely deliver the words.

She shakes her head immediately. He sees her hair swaying in the low light. “No way. You deserve a bed.”

“I don’t want you sleeping on the couch in your own house,” he retorts.

Her mouth opens and closes a couple of times, unsure of how to say what she’s thinking, what she _wants_. “I, uh, thought I could join you.” She juts her chin towards the large, inviting mattress behind him. “In here.”

Leave it to her to find life in him that he worried was long gone. A warmth spreads through him. His voice small, he answers, “Yes, please.”

She moves her grasp to the sides of his face. Gently, she presses his forehead into hers. “Get comfortable.” He catches the hint of mouthwash she used before his arrival on her breath. He swallows. God, having her this close… “I’ll be back in a minute,” she informs him.

She goes into the bathroom and locks the door. She lets the shiver she suppressed ripple through her. Wanting to give him time to remove his shoes--and maybe another article of clothing or two--she sits on the side of the tub. She’s already in her pajamas. A thought occurs to her: _you’re still in a bra, and you hate sleeping in one_. She bites her lip, trying to make a decision. With a shallow sigh, she unclasps it from the back, frees the straps from under her short sleeves, pulls the black lace out from under her shirt, and shoves it in the laundry basket before she leaves the room.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, he realizes his bag is still in his car. There were sweatpants in there he could be in right now. But instead, he’s down to his black t-shirt and boxer briefs--boots, jeans, and flannel resting on an ottoman on the other side of the bedroom. He’s wondering if he got _too_ comfortable when she returns.

“Pick a side,” she instructs. He’s confused for a moment, and then realizes she’s talking about a side of the bed. The side he’s seated on seems good enough. Without a word, he pushes himself up about half of the bed’s length. Slowly, as his head spins a bit from the mild exertion, he lets the base of his skull find one of the gazillion pillows. On his back, he watches her shadow dance across the ceiling.

She takes a trip around the bed to her side. Working swiftly, she removes all but two pillows--one for her and the one he already claimed. She grips the blankets that are folded in half at the foot of the bed. He senses her intent and brings his knees to his chest, freeing the sheets. Still standing, she pulls the soft material up to his hips, and he already feels himself begin to thaw.

She sinks a knee into the mattress as she climbs up. Seated, she peeks at him. His eyes are closed, but his jaw is tight. _Screw it_ , she thinks. Turning to face him, she slides right up against him, yanking the sheets over both of them. There is no gap between their bodies. His eyes open. Perching on her elbow, she gazes into the green. His lips part, taking in a shallow breath. She smiles softly at him before lowering her head to his chest. His heartbeat comes alive in her ear. What she wouldn’t give to safeguard that heart. Just the thought of the pain he’s endured sends anger and sadness rippling through her body. She’s already touching him, but she needs to get closer somehow. She turns herself completely on her side and wraps her arm around him. Holding on as tightly as she can, she fights to ignore the fact that he is pure muscle beneath her.

He tries not to shiver at her touch, dousing himself in her gesture of affection. Even more torturous, he’s fully aware that she has nothing on under her t-shirt. He can feel her free breasts pressing into his ribs. He shifts his hips slightly, careful not to disturb their contact.

After minutes of neither of them moving an inch, he feels like she’s waiting patiently for him to say something. The truth is, she’d eagerly listen to anything he had to express, but she has no desire to push him. They could spend the whole night just like this, and she’d be satisfied, because he was finally in her arms.

He can’t remember being this tired in his life, but even with her draped around him, he cannot sleep. Nightmares. He got them bad enough on a regular night, but after being possessed for weeks? He shudders at the thought.

“Hey,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against his shirt. 

Any last bit of strength he had rushes out of him in that moment. He chokes out a sob, not even concerned with how embarrassing it may be.

“Sweetie…” Damn, she couldn’t help herself.

His tears are here now. He feels one slink down onto his earlobe.

She sits up slightly, resting on her elbow again. She places her hand on his sternum, massaging it so lightly, it’s barely noticeable. Well, barely noticeable to _her_.

His body responds to her touch. She releases something that had been trapped inside him for so long, he considers letting out a wounded wail.

Words. She brings out his words.

“I wasn’t awake for most of it,” he starts.

This is it. She waits patiently, watching him.

“I don’t _know_ all of the things he did. All I remember was...drowning.” His voice shakes on the last word. “It--It shouldn’t be that hard to control your own freakin’ body, but I--I couldn’t. Every time I thought I finally _had_ the son of a bitch, everything exploded into a million red spots, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.” He sucks air into his lungs, tormented by the memory. “I was rattling around in my own head, but I couldn’t move my arms, my legs. I couldn’t _scream_. God, how I wanted to scream…”

Droplets of sorrow fall from her eyes and onto his shoulder.

“And then, all at once, I reached the surface. I…” He lets out a sad chuckle. “I saw Sam first, and I, uh, I thought I somehow made it into Heaven. But there was still this...ache in my chest…” He covers her protective hand with his. “...And I knew it was just our crappy world. But that was okay. Actually, maybe that was better.” The last sentence quickly tumbles from his lips, before he loses his nerve to say it: “Because maybe I’d get to see you again.”

“Dean…” She breathes. But he doesn’t let her respond to his admission.

“The whole ride here, I couldn’t shake the thought of what it was like to have him control me.” Through gritted teeth, he seethes, “I’m terrified.” He takes his hand from hers and drags it down his face. “I’m terrified of what he might’ve done, of _finding out_ what he did--what _I_ did.” His face contorts in disgust. “My stomach’s been killing me since he bailed.” His hand slinks across his belly, and he inhales sharply. “I just wanna sleep. I wanna forget all of this, even if it’s just for a little while. But what if…”  


“Nightmares,” she finishes his thought for him.

Her fingers find his, still resting on his abdomen. She covers his hand this time, hoping to alleviate some of the pain, some of the fear. She settles back into place, lying against him.

“I can’t promise they won’t come,” she admits. He swallows hard. “But if they do…” She lifts her chin so that her lips approach his jawline. In barely a whisper, she promises: “...I’m right here.”

She lightly brushes a kiss below his cheek. His brain fogs, immediately sending him into a much-needed slumber.


End file.
